


Anxiolytic

by celli



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Anxiety, Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Pundit the therapy dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 02:06:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11347635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/pseuds/celli
Summary: "...like, how high up on the list of things that I lie in bed on Sunday nights and feel anxious about should the power grid getting taken out be?" PSTW 6/21/17





	Anxiolytic

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my excellent betas, MadQueenCersei and joshlymanwalkandtalk!
> 
> An anxiolytic is something used to reduce anxiety. That's it, that's the title.
> 
> Please don't share this with anyone connected to PSA.

Tommy sprawls across his bed and stares at the ceiling. Like he does every Sunday, he runs over potential talking points for Monday’s pod, trying to anticipate what Favs and Lovett will say, how to best play off them to get the right info out. It’s a good routine. It definitely makes the pod better.

It definitely doesn’t make sleeping easier, though.

He gets to the end of his mental notes and tries to think of something calming. He’s already used Headspace three times today, so you’d think he would have the ability to relax and just. Fucking. Sleep already.

Nothing. Tommy rolls over in bed and reaches for his phone. His thumb hovers over the Headspace app for a second before he opens up texting.

 **Me:** Someone remind me in the morning that I want to email Amb. McFaul about the Kislyak details.

 **Favs:** Tommy, in the morning, email McFaul about the Kislyak details.

 **Me:** Ha. Ha ha ha.

 **Pfeiffer:** Go to sleep, Tommy.

 **Me:** You go to sleep.

 **Pfeiffer:** I WAS asleep.

Tommy makes a face. He goes back to his home screen and contemplates his options. Maybe he should just send the email tonight; it’s not the first time McFaul has heard from him at midnight.

He’s halfway through the email, flipping back and forth to a news story because he keeps forgetting the important points, when he hears his front door open and close. 

“Yo!” Lovett yells.

“Yo back,” Tommy calls. He hears a chain jingle. “Hey Pundit! C’mere, girl!”

Pundit runs into the room and jumps straight onto the bed -- onto Tommy, actually. He huffs out a breath as she lands half on his stomach. “Hey you,” he says. “How’s my best girl?”

“That’s just sad, Tommy.”

Tommy looks up to see Lovett in a hoodie over a T-shirt and boxers. “Not as sad as your outfit.”

“Hey, I might get out of bed for you, but I don’t have to get into real clothes for you.”

“Lovett,” Tommy says, “you did not.” He can feel his whole face flush. “Go home, go back to bed.”

“Too late, I’m here,” Lovett says. He sits at the foot of the bed, shoving Tommy’s feet out of the way. 

Pundit has settled with her back half on the bed and her front half on Tommy’s chest. Tommy’s going to pretend that’s why he can’t get a deep breath in and his face still feels red. “I’m fine, what the fuck.”

“You’re not fine, it’s Sunday,” Lovett said. “I do listen to your show, you know. Also, Sunday and Wednesday are when I get all my 2AM emails from you. I just figured I’d come over and you could tell me them in person.”

Tommy plays with one of Pundit’s ears. “Did you hear that?” he asks her. “Your dad’s a softie.”

Lovett gives him an exaggerated eye roll. “Yeah, that’s my brand.”

“A huge softie,” Tommy says, making a point of ignoring him, “who worries too much and should be home in bed with you snoring in the dog bed Uncle Tommy got you.”

Lovett stands up, and Tommy’s hands tighten on Pundit before he forces them to relax. But Lovett’s not going for the leash or the door; he comes around the other side of the bed and throws himself down. “Your dad is a practical businessman,” he says, “who doesn’t see any point in doing his own research if your Uncle Tommy is already on it. Now tell me everything about the Russia thing. I want to prep my jokes.”

So Tommy does. He talks Russia, he talks health care, he talks about all of it. And then in the middle of a rant on the vacancies in the State Department, he looks over and Lovett is sound asleep.

“...and you can’t lay the blame for failing to nominate anywhere except the feet of the administration,” he finishes in a whisper directed more at the still-awake Pundit than at Lovett. “I know you’re as frustrated as I am, Pundit, good girl, what a good listener.”

Pundit gives him a big-eyed look, and Tommy smiles and keeps petting her as he lets his eyes close.

He wakes up with a start as Pundit jumps to the floor, presumably heading to the food and water dishes he keeps in the kitchen for visiting dogs and the dog bed in the living room she especially likes. Tommy stretches as much as he can without bumping Lovett. He feels...not bad. Calm. Headspace should make a Lovett-and-Pundit meditation, or maybe that’s just him. It’s probably just him.

Of course, his phone is still next to him when he looks over, and his good mood slips a little as he picks it up. It informs him that it’s 3:30 in the morning, and that it’s almost dead. He sighs. Of course the plug is on the other nightstand, right next to Lovett.

Without really thinking about it, Tommy leans over Lovett and very quietly reaches for the plug. Lovett’s eyes blink open and Tommy winces. “Sorry,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep?”

“Tommy?” Lovett’s voice is sleepy, a little confused.

“Yes, you’re at my house, you should go back to sleep.”

“Right, ‘kay,” Lovett says and kisses him.

Tommy’s going to be embarrassed later that he didn’t pull back or even freeze for a second, but what he actually does is make a little humming noise and kiss Lovett back, pressing him down into the pillows. Lovett wraps his arms around Tommy’s back and urges him closer.

By the time they break for air, they’re tangled up in the covers and Tommy kicks them out of the way. He wants to hold Lovett down, he wants to bite at his throat, he wants to--

“I have wanted to do that for a long time,” Lovett says.

What he doesn’t want is to talk about it. Tommy has had an ironclad policy since the White House of not thinking about his coworkers this way.

He’ll probably regret this in the very near future. Part of him just wants to sit back and process everything.

That part of him can go fuck itself. “Good,” Tommy says, and kisses him again.

Lovett rolls them so they’re on their sides and throws a leg over Tommy’s hip. Tommy moans around the hickey he’s sucking into Lovett’s neck.

“Have you?” Lovett asks.

Tommy sighs into Lovett’s neck. “Why are you talking about feelings instead of making out with me?” But Lovett just pulls back and looks at him, and Tommy sighs again. “It never occurred to me that you’d--I mean, I’m me, Lovett.”

“What the fuck does _that_ mean?” Lovett sounds Rant Wheel mad, and Tommy just blinks at him.

“Uptight. Angry.” He tries to smile. “No eyebrows.”

Lovett snorts. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, the anger retreating a little. “You mean hot as fuck. Compassionate to a fault. Maybe a little tightly wound.” Somehow he manages to shrug while lying on his side. “But for good reasons. And maybe I like you a little angry.” He grins. “I even like your eyebrows.”

“Nobody likes my eyebrows,” Tommy says automatically, trying to process--hot? Compassionate? Hot?

“Shut up,” Lovett says, and lays a smacking kiss on each eyebrow. Tommy’s startled into a laugh.

Lovett pushes Tommy onto his back and kisses him slowly for what feels like forever, until Tommy is shifting restlessly under him and starts toying with the waistband of Lovett’s boxer shorts. 

Lovett sits back on his heels. “Nope,” he says, and Tommy’s face must show his dismay, because Lovett leans forward and kisses him again. “Nope,” he says again against Tommy’s mouth. “I have other plans.”

“Oh fuck,” Tommy says faintly. He grabs for handfuls of the sheets as Lovett wrangles his pajamas off, buries his face in Tommy’s groin (oh fuck), and finally gets his hand and his _mouth_ on Tommy’s dick (oh _fuck_ ).

It is the longest, most torturous blowjob of Tommy’s life. If he’d ever thought about it (maybe he had...a little) he would have assumed Lovett was really, really good at this, and he would have _underestimated_ him. Tommy goes out of his damn mind. His blood is rushing in his ears and his bedroom ceiling seems weirdly out of focus. Lovett has a painful grip on his hips and his mouth is -- his mouth is -- Jesus. At one point Tommy comes back to himself to realize that his hands are tight in Lovett’s hair, and he gasps out, “Am I hurting you?”

Lovett’s glare up clearly says, “Yes, and if you stop I’ll hurt you.” Tommy tightens his grip and holds on as Lovett thoroughly, systematically wrecks him.

Tommy is still shaking when Lovett detaches Tommy’s fingers from his curls, crawls up Tommy’s body, and efficiently jerks off onto Tommy’s shirt. Tommy tries to help but his hands are batted away -- “This is gonna go fast enough, don’t embarrass me,” Lovett says. So Tommy just fastens his hands on Lovett’s hips and keeps his eyes locked on Lovett’s the whole time.

He falls asleep with Lovett next to him, breathing just as hard, and his shirt a wet mess on his stomach. He wakes up shirtless and clean, with Lovett snoring next to him and Pundit sitting on the floor next to the bed, looking hopefully up at him; Tommy pats his chest and she hops up, settling on top of him. 

Next to him, Lovett mumbles something unintelligible. “What?” Tommy asks.

Lovett clears his throat. “I said, you look good with my dog.”

Tommy covers Pundit’s ears. “You look good with my dick,” he says, and Lovett laughs loud and long.

“I will take that compliment,” he says, looking very very smug. “Not every guy wants to be thought of as the cure for insomnia, but Jon Lovett, you just call him whenever you can’t sleep, and he’ll take care of you.” His face twists just slightly as he finished.

Tommy looks at him, thinks about “wanted to do that for a long time,” thinks about “hot” and “compassionate,” and takes a deep breath. “Or I could just call you,” he says -- asks, really.

Lovett just says, “I guess,” but the smile on his face tells the real story. He reaches out to scratch Pundit behind one ear, and they stay there, talking nonsense to the dog, until Tommy’s alarm goes off.


End file.
